PUBLISHER'S  NOTE. 

THE  Yale  Series  of  Younger  Poets  is  designed  to  afford  a  publishing 
medium  for  the  work  of  young  men  and  women  who  have  not  yet 
secured  a  wide  public  recognition.  It  will  include  only  such  verse  as 
seems  to  give  the  fairest  promise  for  the  future  of  American  poetry, — 
to  the  development  of  which  it  is  hoped  that  the  Series  may  prove  a 
stimulus.  Communications  concerning  manuscripts  should  be  addressed 
to  the  Editor,  Professor  Charlton  M.  Lewis,  425  St.  Ronan  Street, 
New  Haven,  Connecticut. 

VOLUMES  ISSUED,  OR  PLANNED  FOR 
EARLY   PUBLICATION 

I.  THE  TEMPERING.  By  Howard  Buck. 
II.  FORGOTTEN  SHRINES.  By  John  Chipman  Farrar. 

III.  FOUR  GARDENS.  By  David  Osborne  Hamilton. 

IV.  SPIRES  AND  POPLARS.  By  Alfred  Raymond  Bellinger. 

V.  THE  WHITE  GOD  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  By  Thomas  Calde- 

cot  Chubb. 
VI.  WHERE  LILITH  DANCES.  By  Darl  Macleod  Boyle. 


Where  Lilith  Dances 


DARL  MACLEOD  BOYLE 


NEW  HAVEN  •  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON  .  HUMPHREY    MILFORD  .  OXFORD    UNIVERSITY    PRESS 

MDCCCCXX 


,    H 

COPYRIGHT,    192O,   BY 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


TO  MY  MOTHER: 

Before  mine  eyes  had  seen  the  light  of  day, 

Or  that  my  soul  had  come  from  Heaven's  great  King, 

A  harmless,  tiny,  helpless  little  thing, 

You  loved  me/  While  my  tender  being  lay 

In  the  soft  rose-leaves  of  your  heart  at  rest, 

Like  some  wee  bird  within  its  downy  nest, 

Beneath  the  skelter  of  its  mother's  wing, 

Unborn, — your  soul  came  in  my  heart  to  dwell, 

Like  perfume  in  the  flower,  each  part  to  bring 

As  warmth  unto  the  young  bird  in  its  shell, 

And  built  me  up  to  what  I  was  to  be, 

A  semblance  of  thyself.  Thus,  being  cast 

In  thy  heart's  mould,  I  grew  up  like  to  thee: 

Thou  wert  my  first  friend  and  wilt  be  my  last! 


64C513 


CONTENTS. 

Dedication    ........          5 

PART  I. 

Where  Lilith  Dances n 

Ere  the  Years  Numbered  Nine        .          .  .                   15 

The  Cave  of  Bethlehem          ...  17 

Hairst 18 

Hush  an'  a  Hush            .          .          .          .  .                   19 

Whaur  the  Winds  Blaw  Free           .          .  .          .20 

PART  II. 

The  Vision  of  Grace     ....  .23 

The  Stranger         ....  .28 

Shadows .29 

When  I  Am  Old x.       3° 

All  Souls'  Eve      .          .          .          .  .          •       31 

The  Mother  of  Us  All  .          .          .          .  .       32 

The  Irish  Wake   ....  33 

The  Curtain           .  35 

Primroses     ......  .36 

The  Church  of  Knocke            .  38 

Morning  and  Night       .          .          .          .  .          .41 

The  Lattice            .          .          .          .  .          .        42 

Idealism -43 

PART  III. 

"Righteousness  and  Peace  Have  Kissed  Each  Other"'  .  47 
Makers  of  Heroes            ...                                 .48 

The  Angels  of  Mons     .          .                                          .  49 

Poland,  1915 51 

The  Red  Reaper   .           .          ...                    /  52 

The  Dead   Death's-Head   Hussar    .           .                   -  -  53 

As  It  Were  a  Sea  of  Glass  Mingled  with  Fire   .          .  54 

To  the  Fallen  of  the  Nations  55 

Strengthen  Us  Now!      ...                     .          .  56 

Onward  Ye  Go     .......  57 

Dulce  et  Decorum          ......  5^ 


The  Night  Wind 59 

A  Blind  Soldier 60 

Russia  ........  63 

"My  God  Forbid  It  Me" 65 


PART  I 


WHERE  LILITH  DANCES. 

[According  to  Rabbinical  legend,  Adam  and  Lilith,  his  first 
wife,  quarreled  as  soon  as  they  were  created,  as  to  which  should 
be  master.  Lilith,  in  anger  at  Adam's  claim,  repeated  a  spell 
which  gave  her  wings,  and  fled  to  the  wild  places  of  the  earth. 
She  married  Sammael,  a  fallen  Angel,  and  in  conspiracy  with 
him  compassed  the  fall  of  Adam  and  Eve  by  borrowing  the 
form  of  the  Serpent  which  guarded  the  gate  of  Eden,  and 
tempting  the  woman  from  the  midst  of  the  foliage  of  the  tree 
of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  Hence  in  old  Italian  pictures 
of  the  Temptation,  the  Serpent  is  sometimes  represented  with  a 
beautiful  woman  s  face.  A  curse  was  laid  on  Lilith  that  no 
child  of  hers  should  live;  and  she  henceforth  had  a  terrible 
power  over  children,  who,  when  they  sicken  and  die,  are  said 
to  be  bewitched  by  her.  She  was  doomed  forever  to  wander 
unseen,  unloved,  alone.] 


I. 

WHERE  three  tall  cypresses  stand  dark 
Against  a  setting  sun, 

And  the  shades  of  night  lurk  in  their  leaves 
Ere  ever  the  day  be  done, 
And  the  day-blind  bats  flit  mournful  by, 
Ere  ever  the  night  be  won, 
And  the  great  white  owl,  he  waits  for  her 
Who  comes  when  the  day  is  done  : 

II. 

Or,  in  the  glade  of  a  mystic  wood, 
Beneath  a  midnight  sky, 

Where  the  satyrs  dance  'neath  the  strange,  gaunt  trees, 
And  the  moon  looks  from  on  high : 
O,  the  wicked  moon,  she  sees  and  laughs, 
As  she  passes  swiftly  by ! 
But  the  pale,  shy  stars  turn  their  eyes  away 
From  the  light  in  Lilith's  eye  : 

ll 


III. 

For  the  dead  gaunt  trees  feel  their  buds  break  green 

When  Lilith  dances  past, 

And  the  little  twigs  all  shake  with  joy 

And  whisper  soft  "At  last!" 

And  the  little  night-flowers  smile  and  sigh, 

For  the  morning  cometh  fast; 

And  the  holy  stars  had  no  peace  in  heaven 

Saw  they  her  gliding  past ! 

IV. 

O,  the  weird  white  mistletoe  bends  from  the  oak, 

As  she  danceth  beneath  the  trees, 

And  the  perfume  of  dark  night-flowers  creeps  out 

And  hangs  on  the  trembling  breeze, 

And  the  dim  red  poppy,  whose  name  is  Dream, 

Longs  for  her  flowing  hair, 

And  the  great  white  poppy  of  dreamless  sleep 

Droops  over  Lilith's  lair, 

But  the  wine-dark  poppy,  whose  gift  is  Death, 

Stands  lone  in  the  chill  night  air! 

V.  \ 

Or,  in  a  storm-vext  mountain  pass 
By  the  torrents'  shuddering  foam, 
She  danceth  with  the  lonely  winds, 
And  the  clouds  that  know  no  home ; 
Content,  remembering  Lilith's  face, 
Round  the  round  world  to  roam! 

VI. 

And  by  the  side  of  a  reedy  stream, 
On  a  white  dream-night  in  June, 
When  reed  and  iris  whisper  soft 
Their  secrets  to  the  moon, 
Her  feet  keep  time  to  the  pipes  of  Pan, 
As  he  plays  a  mystic  tune, 
And  the  young  wind  wakes  before  the  dawn, 
The  dawn  that  breaks  too  soon. 

12 


VII. 

Or,  ofttimes  through  a  little  town 

Built  long  and  long  ago, 

She  glides  adown  the  grass-grown  ways, 

Beneath  the  full  moon's  glow. 

O  the  moon  gleams  red  o'er  the  ancient  town, 

And  Lilith  passes  slow ! 

VIII. 

Or  in  some  antique  garden  strays, 

Beneath  a  hedge  of  yew, 

And  from  the  rich  red  roses  shakes 

The  treasures  of  the  dew; 

But  she  goes  not  nigh  the  lilies  tall, 

The  Virgin's  lilies  white, 

For  Lilith  loves  not  Mary's  flower, 

Gift  of  the  Angel  bright: 

She  loves  the  poppy  whose  name  is  Sleep, 

And  the  deadly  flowers  of  night. 

IX. 

Or  where  the  weird  white  hawthorn  makes 

A  glimmer  in  the  night, 

And  all  the  trees  are  dreaming  deep 

Bathed  in  the  chill  moonlight, 

'Tis  there  and  then  that  Lilith  meets 

The  spirits  of  the  night; 

X. 

In  the  dim,  haunted  vale  they  dance 

Beside  the  pools  of  sleep, 

But  they  go  not  up  the  mountain  side 

That  rises  grey  and  steep, 

For  there  the  lonely  rowan  trees 

Their  holy  vigil  keep. 

XI. 

Or,  when  the  first  faint  flush  of  dawn 

Tinges  the  desert  sands, 

And  the  desert,  like  a  mighty  sea, 

13 


Stretches  to  distant  lands, 
Ere  ever  the  sun  has  risen  yet, 
For  a  moment's  space  she  stands. 

XII. 

Or  on  the  waves  of  the  foaming  sea 

She  dances  through  the  night, 

And  rides  through  the  mist  and  the  dashing  spray, 

On  the  great  wave-crests  of  white. 

She  sports  with  sea-maids  on  the  sands, 

Beside  the  moaning  waves, 

And  the  sea-flowers  quiver  and  cling  to  her 

As  she  glides  through  ocean-caves, 

And  the  lonely  sailor  hears  her  song 

Rise  through  the  surging  waves. 

XIII. 

Oft  in  the  dreaming  meadows, 
When  children  are  at  play, 
Beside  the  flower-twined  hedgerow, 
At  the  dim  close  of  day, 
Poor  childless  Lilith  beckons, 
And  bids  the  children  stay, 
But  at  one  glance  from  Lilith's  eyes 
Their  white  souls  flee  away ! 

XIV. 

And  mortal  man  who  sees  her  dance, 

By  wood  or  lake  or  shore, 

Will  roam  the  world  for  love  of  her, 

Nor  knows  he  joyance  more, 

And  he  who  heareth  Lilith  sing 

Will  ne'er  be  as  before. 

XV. 

For  in  her  song  are  youth  and  age, 
Evening,  the  sea-waves'  knell, 
And  storm,  and  death,  and  moonlit  skies, 
And  thoughts  that  none  may  tell, 
And  he  who  hears  can  ne'er  have  peace, 
Through  Earth  and  Heaven  and  Hell! 

H 


ERE  THE  YEARS  NUMBERED  NINE. 

IN  the  lang,  lang  syne, 
When  the  world  was  a  toy, 
Ere  the  years  numbered  nine, 
I  remember  one  joy: 
'Twas  to  rise  in  the  grey 
Of  a  white  winter's  morn 
When  the  low  sun's  red  ray 
Made  the  world  forlorn, 
To  see  on  the  pane 
The  magic  Jack  Frost 
Had  wrought  once  again, 
And  in  silver  embossed : 

Strange  seas  of  white  spray, 
That  fell  not  nor  rose; 
White  trees  that  ne'er  sway 
In  a  wind  that  ne'er  blows; 
Silver  streams  'mong  the  hills 
Of  a  far  silver  moon; 
White  noonday  that  chills, 
White  skies  in  a  swoon. 

Since  then  I  have  seen 
Snowy  range  upon  range 
Lift  its  far  head  serene, 
Vast,  kingly  and  strange ; 
White  sea-waves  that  froze 
Before  they  could  fall, 
Flush  of  soft  sunset  rose 
On  the  high  snowy  wall, 
Mountain-clouds  in  the  noon, 
Dim,  mocking  the  sight, 
And  where  the  white  moon 
Walked  alone  on  the  height; 
Yet  these  sights  never  moved 
Nor  made  my  heart  fain 
As  the  grey  dawns  I  loved, 
And  the  frosts  on  the  pane ! 


Strange  seas  of  white  spray, 
That  fell  not  nor  rose; 
White  trees  that  ne'er  sway 
In  a  wind  that  ne'er  blows; 
Silver  streams  'mong  the  hills 
Of  a  far  silver  moon; 
White  noonday  that  chills, 
White  skies  in  a  swoon. 

But  that  was  lang  syne, 
When  the  world  was  a  toy, 
Ere  the  years  numbered  nine, 
When  to  live  was  a  joy! 


16 


THE  CAVE  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

" 'The  ox  knoweth  his  owner,  and  the  ass  his  master's  crib." 

I.  THE  Ox. 

THAT  nicht  the  Bairnie  lay 
'Mang  the  sweet-smellin'  hay, 

His  young  een  dazed  wi'  kings  an'  a'  their  sheen; 
His  heid  He  turned  roon', 
An'  ower  Him  bendin'  doon, 
There  lookit  intae  His  twa  saft  broon  een. 

He  reached  His  wee  han's  oot 

Tae  the  big  gentle  brute, 
The  wee  face  smiled  intae  the  big  broon  een; 

Fu'  low  the  great  heid  bent, 

As  gin  fu'  weel  he  kent 
Wha  'twas  had  come  tae  cure  the  beasties'  teen ! 

II.  THE  Ass. 

They  crooded  a'  the  wee  low  cave, 
Great  shinin'  kings  wi'  mony  a  slave, 
Frae  oot  the  gowden  East, 
Horses  o'  war  an'  camels  great, 
Harnessed  in  a'  the  pride  o'  state, 
An'  mony  a  huntin'  beast. 

The  Bairnie  looked  them  up  an'  doon, 

An'  careless  was  His  ee; 

Then  slow  His  heid  He  turned  roon', 

An'  looked  an'  smiled  at  me. 

Some  day — wha  kens? — a  King  may  ride 

Fu'  lowly  doon  the  mountain  side, 

Tae  auld  Jerus'lem  toon ; 

An'  croods  will  cheer  an'  wave  their  palms, 

An'  fill  the  air  wi'  David's  psalms, 

An'  fling  their  garments  doon. 

Ane  o'  ma  tribe  for  Him  that  day 

Will  wait  whaur  twa  roads  meet, 

Tae  bear  Him  doon  the  mountain  way, 

An'  up  the  city  street ! 

17 


HAIRST. 

I'M  but  a  puir  bit  lassie, 
An'  when  the  day's  wark's  dune, 
I  wander  ower  the  heather  hill 
Tae  watch  the  settin'  sun ; 
But  O,  it's  nae  the  sunset, 
But  a  bluid-red  field  I  see  : 
An'  O,  ma  bonnie  laddie 
In  the  Laigh  Countree ! 

Noo  silent  is  the  hairst  field, 
Wi'  twa'r  three  woman  folk, 
Fu'  weary  bend  the  warkers, 
Nae  laugh  nor  daff  nor  talk; 
An'  I  see  anither  hairst  field, 
Whaur  the  sheaves  lie  silently : 
An'  O,  ma  bonnie  laddie 
In  the  Laigh  Countree ! 

Aneath  the  roon,  red  hairst  moon 

I  gang  ma  lee  alane; 

There's  mony  a  ane  that's  strong  and  hale 

Will  never  see  it  wane. 

I  wonder  what  it's  lookin'  on 

Far,  far  across  the  sea, 

An'  O,  ma  bonnie  laddie 

In  the  Laigh  Countree! 

But  O,  I  wadna  hae  him  here, 
For  a'  ma  heart's  sae  sair; 
Whaur  should  he  be  but  whaur  he  is, 
Should  I  ne'er  see  him  mair4? 
Wha  wants  a  cooard  for  a  lad*? 
'Twere  better  far  tae  dee; 
But  O,  ma  bonnie  laddie 
In  the  Laigh  Countree! 


18 


JHUSH  AN'  A  HUSH. 

|T  TUSH,  an'  a  hush,  ma  bonnie  wee  laddie, 
JL~1  Daddy's  awa,  an'  awa,  tae  the  war; 
;Daddy's  ne'er  seen  his  gowden-haired  laddie, 
An'  noo  he's  awa  sae  far,  an'  sae  far ! 

Hush,  an'  a  hush,  ma  bonnie  wee  laddie, 
iDaddy  is  fichtin'  for  mither  an'  you; 
iSoon  he'll  be  hame  tae  his  ain  wee  bit  laddie, 
An'  bonnie  blue  een  will  smile  intae  blue! 

Hush,  an'  a  hush,  ma  bonnie  wee  laddie, 
iWhat  makes  ye  stare  wi'  yer  bonnie  bricht  ee*? 
[It's  noucht  but  th'  moon  glintin'  in  at  the  window, 
jAn'  Daddy's  awa  in  the  Laigh  Countrie ! 

Hush,  an'  a  hush,  ma  bonnie  wee  laddie, 
Daddy's  awa,  an'  awa,  tae  the  war; 
JDaddy's  ne'er  seen  his  yellow-haired  laddie, 
An'  noo  he's  awa  sae  far,  an'  sae  far ! 


WHAUR  THE  WINDS  BLAW  FREE. 

OWHA  will  gang  wi'  me  the  day, 
An  wha  will  bide  at  hame? 
The  waves  are  ripplin'  blithe  an'  gay, 
A'  flecked  wi'  snawy  faem; 
The  sea  is  sparklin'  noo  an'  still, 
But  that's  no  the  way  for  me, 
I'm  gangin'  up  the  heather  hill, 
Whaur  the  winds  blaw  free! 

The  lawlan's  lie  fu'  fair  tae  see, 

A'  glinten  in  the  sun, 

The  gowden  corn  sways  bonnily, 

The  hairst  is  noo  begun; 

But  we'll  gang  up  the  mountain  side, 

Wi'  the  bracken  tae  the  knee, 

An'  there  we'll  run,  an'  there  we'll  ride 

Whaur  the  winds  blaw  free! 

Wi'  the  kindly  heather  'neath  oor  feet, 

The  blue  lift  owerheid, 

We'll  hae  nae  thocht  o'  the  city  street, 

O'  land  or  wealth  nae  need; 

For  a'  the  warld  oor  ain  is  still, 

The  earth,  the  sky,  the  sea, 

When  we  wander  ower  the  heather  hill 

WThaur  the  winds  blaw  free. 

An'  when  at  last  gangs  doon  the  sun, 

Red  in  a  gowden  haze, 

We'll  tell  auld  tales  o'  deeds  were  dune, 

In  Scotia's  ancient  days ; 

Until  the  auld  heroic  dead, 

Frae  earth  an'  frae  the  sea, 

Stand  there  upon  the  heather  hill 

Whaur  the  winds  blaw  free ! 


20 


PART  II 


THE  VISION  OF  GRACE. 
I. 

I  SAID  :  "It  is  my  due, 
Weighed  in  the  balance  true 
Wherewith  God  weighs  the  wages  of  His  Saints. 
The  soul  hath  her  own  pride, 
Which  will  not  be  denied, 
And  spurns  to  beat  at  Heaven's  gate, 
Beggared  and  desperate, 
Cringing  for  her  own  with  cries  and  plaints. 
Put  finger  on  the  flaw, 
Show  me  the  broken  law, 
The  foot  that  slipped  into  the  mire  of  flesh. 
When  did  the  world  enmesh 
Within  its  golden  net 
The  pilgrim  soul 
Whose  far  invisible  goal 
Beyond  the  starry  galaxy  was  set? 
Therefore  it  is  I  spurn 
That  which  I  did  not  earn, 
The  dole  flung  to  me  of  a  God's  mere  grace, 
And  arbitrary  favour  of  His  face." 

A  voice  behind  me  spoke; 

Like  a  whole  sea  it  broke, 

And  shook  from  pole  to  pole 

The  sureness  of  my  steadfast  soul ; 

"Yea,  art  thou  so  complete, 

From  poised  head  to  conquering  feet 

No  soil  of  clay  in  all  thy  golden  frame, 

No  reft  of  sin,  alloy  of  blame*? 

Thou  boastest  thou  dost  spurn 

Whate'er  thou  didst  not  earn ; 

When  didst  thou  earn  the  I,  the  Me? 

Whence  came  the  eyes  that  see, 

The  mind  behind  the  eyes, 

The  heart  that  flushes  with  surprise 

And  joy  at  sunset  or  sunrise*? 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars, 

23 


The  sea  that  beats  behind  its  mighty  bars, 

Alps  over  alps, 

Lifting  their  snowy  crests, 

Astrain  to  gaze  across  the  margin  of  the  world ; 

Say,  when  didst  thou  earn  these  ? 

Poor  fool !  dost  thou  not  feel 

'Tis  all  of  Grace — great  Nature's  wheel, 

The  earth,  the  sky,  the  sea, 

Thy  very  self,  the  I,  the  Me? 

Now  spurn 
That  which  thou  didst  not  earn !" 

II. 

My  pride  with  torn  sail 

Bore  on  against  the  gale  : 

"I  yield  the  self— the  I,  the  Me, 

I  yield  the  earth,  the  sky,  the  sea, 

Divinest  be  the  grace  by  which  they  came  to  be ! 

Self  and  the  world  once  given, 

Why  must  the  Grace  of  Heaven, 

Ungracious,  grudge  my  little  human  need? 

At  least,  alone  I  stood; 

Sucked  not  a  brother's  blood, 

Nor  hung  upon  another's  gracious  deed. 

Wherefore,  within  the  round 

Of  my  own  human  bound, 

Still  do  I  spurn 
That  which  I  did  not  earn." 

A  sudden  silence  fell, 
Then  like  a  silver  bell 
Floated  a  music  out  of  far-off  years — 
A  sweet  remembered  lullaby  of  smiles  and  tears, 
Fond  hopes  and  trembling  fears, 
And  through  the  veil  of  music  came 
A  voice  that  burnt  my  heart  like  flame  : 
"Ah  me,  so  soon  forgot ! 
Whose  was  the  agony  that  gave  thee  life? 
A  gift  thou  knewest  not. 
When  thou  didst  lie  upon  her  breast, 

24 


Say,  didst  thou  earn  that  nest? 

Was  it  as  wages  of  work  well  done 

She  fought  with  bitter  Death 

Through  the  dark  night  till  rise  of  sun, 

To  save  thy  failing  breath, 

And  smiled  to  see  her  own  wan  face, 

Since  thine  was  ruddy  with  health's  grace*? 

Did  she  once  pause  to  ask, 

Before  she  did  her  task: 

'What  has  he  done  to  merit  this*? 

Has  he  deserved  his  mother's  kiss?' 

Ay,  go  and  say  to  thy  dead  mother's  face: 

'I  fling  thee  back  thy  grace, 

I  spurn 
That  which  I  did  not  earn !' '' 

III. 

A  face  smiled  love  across  the  years, 

A  dear  hand  beckoned  white, 

And  grief  broke  in  a  mist  of  tears, 

And  the  mist  broke  into  light. 

And  yet  my  stubborn  pride 

Refused  to  be  denied; 

"Yea,  that  dear  soul  of  grace 

Smiles  in  a  happy  place : 

Gladly  I  owe  the  unrequited  debt. 

And  yet,  and  yet — 

What  do  I  owe  the  general  race  of  man, 

The  generations  since  the  world  began? 

Wild  blood  and  lawless  mind, 

And  lusts  that  drive  us  like  a  restless  wind, 

Forever  seeking  what  we  shall  not  find. 

I  owe  them  naught; 

What  is  there  that  I  have  not  bought 

With  strength  of  hand  and  toil  of  thought? 

Knowledge  in  her  circle  bright, 

Beauty  in  her  sevenfold  light, 

Prudence  with  her  bit  and  rein, 

Love  that  counteth  loss  her  gain. 

25 


Once  more  I  spurn 

That  which  I  did  not  earn." 

Then  rose  a  Voice  from  out  the  dust : 

"Hast  thou  forgot  the  memory  of  the  just? 

Dost  thou  not  know 

That  in  man's  onward  march 

Every  step  with  blood  is  wet 

Beneath  the  heaven's  careless  arch? 

And  tears  like  waters  flow, 

That  the  torn  flag  of  truth  be  set 

But  one  ridge  higher  in  a  thousand  years. 

The  prophets  are  asunder  sawn ; 

The  martyrs  to  the  stake  are  drawn ; 

A  thousand  soldiers  die 

To  make  a  bridge  to  liberty. 

Thy  flower  of  life  doth  grow 

In  human  dust,  watered  with  human  tears. 

And  thou,  forsooth,  dost  spurn 

Whate'er  thou  didst  not  earn ! 

Ah,  when  wilt  thou  have  grace  to  learn 

That  all  thy  boasted  good 

Was  bought  with  blood? 

That  all  thy  roots  are  sunk  in  grace, 

The  unremembered  sorrows  of  thy  race  *? 

A  costly  price,  I  trow, 

To  pay  for  such  as  thou !" 

IV. 

Then  rose  my  pride  in  wrath : 
"  'Tis  true :  the  upward  path 
Is  o'er  the  broken  hearts  of  men. 
Their  dearest  hopes  they  fling  away,  and  then 
For  us  lie  down  to  die. 
But  Thou,  Most  High, 
Shar'st  not  the  sacrifice ! 
Upon  Thy  throne  of  ice 
Thou  sat'st  apart 

A  God  of  ice ;  alone,  without  a  heart. 
'O  rend  the  heavens  and  come  down !' 

26 


Thou  gav'st  no  answer  to  Thy  prophet's  cry, 

And  the  indifferent  sky 

Gave  neither  smile  nor  frown. 

Ah  God,  my  God,  bethink  Thee,  was  it  right 

To  sit  in  silence  on  the  height*? 

Did  never  wave  of  generous  shame 

Break  o'er  Thee  and  Thy  throne, 

To  be  in  love  so  far  outdone 

By  things  without  a  name*?" 

There  fell  a  sullen  hush, 

As  if  in  awe  of  the  wild  word, 

And  o'er  the  world  a  darkness  crept, 

And  thro'  the  dark  a  sudden  rush 

Of  unseen  wings  was  heard. 

Then  the  earth  moaned  as  if  it  slept 

Uneasily,  and  shuddered  in  its  pain. 

Some  tragedy  unseen 

Throbbed  like  a  breaking  heart 

Behind  the  awful  screen. 

Then  did  the  distant  edge  of  heaven  dispart 

In  one  long  sword  of  light, 

And  from  a  cross  there  bent  a  Head ; 

"My  God,  my  God!"  was  said; 

Dark  drops  fell  down, 

As  from  a  thorny  crown. 

One  flash,  and  Heaven  and  Earth  did  pass  away ; 

In  flowed  the  sevenfold  day 

That  beats  around  the  eternal  throne. 

Angels  in  wide  array 

Rank  over  rank  in  glory  shone, 

Upon  the  throne  sat  One. 

A  crown  of  thorns  upon  His  bended  head, 

His  hands  had  wounds  yet  red, 

A  spear  had  pierced  His  heart. 

Slowly  He  spread  His  hands  apart, 

Slowly  He  lifted  up  His  head, 

And  looked  at  me.  I  saw  His  eyes. 

Ah  me !  those  eyes  ! 

2? 


THE  STRANGER. 

A i,  who  is  the  stranger, 
With  morn  in  his  eyes, 
This  desperate  ranger 
Of  earth  and  the  skies  ? 

Whose,  whose  are  the  fancies 
That  fly  with  the  moon? 
Ah,  who  is  it  dances 
To  the  fairy-pipes'  tune  ? 

Who  is  this  finds  his  heaven 
In  his  mother's  blue  eyes, 
Ere  the  years  number  seven, 
Or  the  morning  star  dies'? 

Ah,  who  is  the  stranger 
Who  never  could  die, 
The  scorner  of  danger? — 
Ah,  child,  was  it  I*? 


28 


SHADOWS. 

A  YEAR  ago 
One  walked  with  me 
Across  the  snow, 
By  the  bare  gaunt  tree, 
And  our  shadows  passed  slow 
O'er  the  bare  white  lea. 

Two  shadows  cast 
By  the  visiting  moon, 
Together  passed 
In  the  wind's  low  croon; 
The  hour  went  fast 
And  passed  too  soon. 

One  shadow  throws 
The  moon  on  the  lea, 
One  shadow  goes, 
That  eye  cannot  see, 
Across  the  snows 
Along  with  me. 

A  year  ago, 

O  visiting  moon, 

Two  trod  the  snow 

In  the  wind's  low  croon ; 

The  Shadows  went  slow 

Yet  one  passed  too  soon ! 


29 


WHEN  I  AM  OLD. 

WHEN  I  am  old,  and  my  good  days  are  o'er, 
And  life  and  love  are  less  than  dreams  of  dreams, 
And  my  soul  sits  within  the  burnt-out  core 
Of  its  own  ghost,  and  God  Himself  but  seems : 

When,  love,  you  speak,  and  I  know  not  your  name, 
And  look  up  dazed,  and  wonder  who  you  are, 
And  care  no  longer  if  you  praise  or  blame, 
Or  whether  'twixt  us  two  'tis  peace  or  war : 

Have  patience  with  the  unremembering  eyes 

Which  once  their  love-thirst  from  your  own  did  slake ; 

Think  how  this  heart  once  thought  it  paradise 

To  burn  itself  to  ashes  for  your  sake ! 


ALL  SOULS'  EVE. 

THE  evening  is  dark,  and  the  sky  is  misty,  and  the  wind 
blows  low ; 
O  wind,  cease  swaying  the  bare,  bare  branches,  bending  them 

to  and  fro, 

They  look  too  like  ghosts  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
Ah,  too  like  ghosts  in  the  dusky  night, 
When  ghosts  glide  to  and  fro! 

O  ghosts  not  laid,   and  ghosts   forgotten,  and  ghosts  of  the 

evil  dead, 
Why  will  ye  come  to  sear  my  heart,  when  I  thought  ye  had 

gone,  had  fled, 

Why  do  ye  come  on  this  night  of  the  year, 
Does  it  ease  your  pain  to  behold  my  fear, 
Since  all  is  done  and  said*? 


THE  MOTHER  OF  US  ALL. 

MAKE  her  an  image  of  the  pendent  world, 
A  living  mirror  of  the  living  whole ; 
Be  Time  and  Space  within  her  heart  upcurled, 
Then  set  Eternity  within  her  soul. 

Break,  break,  on  every  shore,  ye  homeless  waves, 
Lifted  by  moon  and  driven  by  the  wind, 
White  on  the  sky-line,  dark  in  ocean  caves, 
Playing  on  sands,  when  sun  and  breeze  are  kind. 

Let  there  rise  mountains  of  fire  and  snow, 
Majestic  rivers  fed  by  lonely  rills, 
Mysterious  forests  man  may  never  know, 
Vales  where  the  moon  walks  naked  on  the  hills. 

Wide  fields  be  there,  with  poppies  in  the  wheat, 
And,  for  delight,  a  little  garden  plot, — 
Lilies  and  roses  asleep  in  the  noon  heat, — 
White  moons  of  daisies,  pansies  dark  for  thought; 

High  over  all,  within  the  soul's  pure  sky, 

Sun,  moon  and  stars,  eternal  and  divine, 

In  the  dark  of  midnight,  or  when  the  noon  is  high, 

Rising  for  a  wonder,  setting  for  a  sign. 

Let  all  sweet  sounds  make  music  in  her  blood, 
The  pipes  of  Pan,  and  every  wild  bird's  tune, 
All  voices  of  the  sea  and  mountain  flood, 
And  every  wind  that  roves  'neath  sun  and  moon. 

Make  her  an  image  of  the  pendent  world, 
A  living  mirror  of  the  living  whole; 
Be  Time  and  Space  within  her  heart  upcurled, 
Then  set  Eternity  within  her  soul ! 


THE  IRISH  WAKE. 

SHE  opened  the  door  of  the  dead, 
And  the  silence  received  her, 
Folded  her  in 

Away  from  the  jest  and  the  weeping 
That  seemed  to  mock  one  another 
Around  the  white  face  within — 
The  young  girl-face,  so  quiet, 
Aloof  from  it  all, 

Done  now  with  laughter  and  tears  forever, 
Her  dear  companion  and  friend. 

The  silence  folded  her  in, 

The  white  silence  of  dawn, 

One  star  still  in  the  sky, 

Tremulous,  dim, 

Beginning  to  die  too  in  the  white  spaces. 

With  a  sudden  throb  of  the  heart 

She  thought  of  her  lover: 

Ah  God!  It  might  have  been  himself, — 

Herself, — lying  there  within 

On  the  bed  white  and  still ! 

And  the  young  blood  broke  through  her  grief 

And  triumphed  o'er  death, 

In  joy  that  they  still  were  alive, 

And  before  them  a  world  of  love ! 

She  lifted  her  eyes; 

The  star  was  gone, 

But  the  dawn  was  now  full. 

And  ev'n  as  her  eyes  fell, 

Fell  also  her  doom. 

She  saw  him  stand 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dim  lane ; 

White  like  a  ghost  in  the  dawn 

Was  the  flower  of  the  thorn; 

Whiter  his  face. 

She  saw  in  the  depth  of  his  eyes 

The  misery  hopeless  and  wan, 

33 


And  in  one  desolate  flash 

She  knew  it  all, 

And  envied  the  still  heart  within 

Both  Love  and  Death ! 

Dear  God,  that  she  were  lying  there 

Instead,  safe  from  the  heartache! 

She  had  been  so  glad  to  be  alive,  alive, 

And  now — O  Jesus,  gentle  Jesus, 

Plead,  plead  with  God  to  let  her  die ! 

The  sun  rose  o'er  the  mountain's  rim 
And  smote  her  in  the  face, 
And  a  new  world  began. 


34 


THE  CURTAIN. 

EtE  some  seraglio  of  an  Eastern  king, 
Secret  and  screened  from  gaze  of  prying  eyes, 
So  is  the  soul  of  many  a  friend  we  know. 
And  as  some  gazer  hidden  'mong  the  palms, 
In  some  fair  garden  by  the  water,  sees 
A  dark  Sultana  for  a  moment  stand, 
Dreaming,  behind  the  casement  curtain-folds, 
The  red  gold  gleaming  on  her  dusky  brow: 
The  hidden  beauty  for  a  moment  stands, 
And  gazes,  dreaming,  from  some  well-known  eyes. 


PRIMROSES. 

GROW  pale,  ye  primroses, 
Grow  ye  very  pale, 
For  he  is  paler  still. 
Strew  far  and  wide  your  petals, 
Dim,  soft  petals, 
Over  the  little  hill ! 

Grow  pale,  ye  primroses, 
Grow,  grow  ye  very  pale, 
For  he  is  paler  still. 
And  be  your  sweet  eyes  dim 
With  tears  remembering  him! 

Remember,  dear  primroses, 

How  he  would  wander  here, 

And  welcome  your  soft  posies 

In  the  springtime  of  the  year. 

And  how  the  little  foot  would  tread 

Gently  lest  it  press  your  head; 

He  would  not  gather  primroses 

Upon  the  little  hill. 

"They  would  be  hurt,"  he  said. 

So  grow  ye  pale,  primroses, 

For  he  is  paler  still, 

And  be  your  sweet  eyes  dim 

With  tears  remembering  him! 

Grow  pale,  ye  primroses, 
Grow  ye  very  pale, 
For  one  who's  paler  still 
With  eyes  more  dim, 
Knows  not  where  he  reposes, 
On  some  far  distant  hill, 
Or  down  some  shady  vale; 
And  tell  your  sister-posies 
Each  springtime  of  the  year 
To  spread  their  petals  pale 
With  gentle  touch  o'er  him 

36 


Who  now  is  paler  still. 

Let  one  small  dewdrop  tear 

Your  sweet  eyes  dim 

From  dawn  till  daylight  closes 

For  one  with  eyes  more  dim, 

With  tears  remembering  him! 


37 


THE  CHURCH  OF  KNOCKE. 

I  STOOD,  a  stranger, 
Indifferent,  critical,  curious, 
Born  of  an  alien  faith, 
Watching  the  farm  folk, 
Field-delvers,  herdsmen, 
Gather  to  worship 
Their  fellow-toiler, 
The  Carpenter — 
Crucified. 

'Twas  past  dawn  scarce  an  hour. 

In  my  own  distant  land, 

This  morn  of  the  Sabbath, 

The  folk  of  my  faith 

Still  were  sleeping 

The  sleep  of  the  just, 

And  their  Lord, 

The  Crucified, 

Awaited  their  leisure; 

And  these,  while  still  it  is  dark, 

Arise  and  haste  onward 

Thro'  the  chill  morning  winds 

To  meet  with  their  Lord 

At  the  dim  holy  hour 

When  He  arose  in  the  garden, 

And  saw  the  sun  rise, 

And  a  new  world  began. 

One  came  after  the  rest, 

Grey  with  the  dust  of  the  way, 

A  man  of  the  fields, 

Tall  and  gaunt, 

Familiar  with  toil, 

Acquainted  with  hunger, 

His  face  burnt  and  marred 

As  one  whom  the  sun  and  the  winds 

Long,  long  had  their  will  of, 

His  poor  garb  decent 

38 


To  meet  with  his  Lord. 

Naught  cared  he  for  the  stranger, 

Indifferent,  critical,  curious. 

Straight  to  the  cross 

Affix'd  to  a  pillar, 

The  great  cross  where  the  Christ 

Of  a  man's  full  stature 

Bowed  lowly  in  death. 

Before  Him  he  knelt, 
Bent  the  iron-grey  head, 
As  owning  his  wrongness ; 
Then,  as  in  a  passion, 
Swift,  sudden,  imperious, 
He  lifted  his  face 
To  the  marred  face  above, 
And  stretched  out  his  arms 
Like  the  arms  on  the  cross 
As  in  some  vast  appeal 
Which  may  not  be  gainsaid. 

I  saw  the  poor  outspread  hands, 
Gnarled,  twisted,  scarred, 
With  wounds  of  labor : 
I  saw  the  twain — 
And  lo,  face  to  face, 
Form  to  form, 
Each  answered  each, 
Above,  below ! 

Swift  as  he  came 

He  rose  and  passed 

Back  to  his  cross,  content. 

O  Crucified  above, 

What  did  he  ask — 

The  crucified  below*? 

Ah,  naught,  naught  for  himself, 

Ah,  surely  naught! 

Some  dear  soul  climbing  up 

39 


The  cleansing  mount; 

A  son  in  peril 

Far  off  on  unknown  seas ; 

Some  daughter, 

Light  of  his  lonely  eyes, 

Treading  the  downward  slope  of  death ; 

The  land  of  his  birth, 

Beneath  the  dark  shadow 

Of  wings  of  the  vulture, 

Man,  woman,  child, 

Unconscious  of  woe: 

These,  these  he  brought, 

O  Crucified, 

And  left  them  here  with  Thee! 


40 


MORNING  AND  NIGHT. 

WHEN  stooped  the  white  morning 
The  Red  Rose  to  cull, 
He  turned  with  scorning 
From  the  place  of  the  Skull. 

Night  stooped  in  the  gloaming 
White  poppies  to  cull ; 
His  soul,  it  went  homing 
To  the  place  of  the  Skull. 


THE  LATTICE. 

WHO  is  this  who  looketh  forth  thro'  the  lattice, 
With  glance  familiar,  yet  so  strange,  so  various  *? 
One  moment  warm  as  a  dear  friend's  embracing, 
Then  a  veil  falls,  and  lo,  cold  is  the  stranger : 
Who  art  thou  there  lurking  behind  the  lattice, 

Ah,  who  art  thou*? 

Grey  were  the  eyes,  as  under  a  grey  heaven 
A  grey  sea  broodeth,  all  a-dream  and  heaveless; 
Sudden  thro'  a  rift  breaks  a  happy  sunbeam, 
A  little  well  of  light  the  grey  ensapphires, 
All  the  lattice  glows  with  a  flash  of  laughter : 

Ah,  sea-grey  eyes ! 


42 


IDEALISM. 

AJD  canst  thou  say,  "This  sky,  that  flying  cloud, 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  those  worlds  unknown, 
That  mavis'  song  that  rises  sweet  and  loud, 
Are  but  a  dream,  and  I  exist  alone ; 
That  lovely,  blue,  unfathomable  deep, 
These  grains  of  sand  which  thro'  my  fingers  run, 
That  clear  rock-pool  on  which  the  sunbeams  sleep, 
The  flowers  that  draw  their  colors  from  the  sun, 
Each  sound  I  hear,  each  lovely  melody  fraught 
With  gentle  joy,  each  wild  pathetic  strain, 
And  all  the  worlds  of  sight  and  sound  are  naught 
Apart  from  me — the  children  of  my  brain"  *? 
Philosopher,  he  who  unaided  can 
Imagine  these,  himself  is  God,  not  man ! 


43 


PART  III 


"RIGHTEOUSNESS  AND  PEACE  HAVE 
KISSED  EACH  OTHER." 

BE  still,  sweet  Peace,  and  dry  thy  burning  tears ; 
I  am  thy  sister  War,  and  love  thee  well ; 
Yea,  and  for  love  I  storm  with  shot  and  shell, 
And  pierce  thy  soul  with  wounds  and  deaths  and  fears, 
And  break  before  thine  eyes  thy  hopes  and  joys, 
Thy  silken  pleasures  and  thy  gilded  toys! 

Ah,  Peace,  where  is  our  elder  sister  gone — 
She,  the  true  heir  and  queen  of  all  our  realm*? 
'Tis  for  her  sake  that  thus  I  overwhelm 
Thy  fair  prosperities,  lest  Hell  should  yawn. 
Recall  our  exiled  sister  from  distress, 
Kiss  her  pure  lips :  her  name  is  Righteousness ! 


47 


MAKERS  OF  HEROES. 

OMoNS  and  Charleroi, 
War  of  the  Rivers, 
Makers  of  Heroes ! 

Yesterday  common  dust, 
Clay  like  the  rest  of  us, 
Sons  of  mere  mortals — 
Craftsmen  and  fishermen, 
Shepherds  and  laborers, 
Shopkeepers,  artisans — 
To-day,  sons  of  Gods, 
Comrades  of  heroes, 
Perseus  and  his  peers, 
Slayers  of  monsters: 
Stars  in  the  firmament, 
Clear  shining  for  ever ! 

And  some — ah,  unfortunate! 

Fettered  like  beasts 

To  browse  in  the  field: 

One,  alas,  by  the  years, 

And  one  by  his  home, 

And  one  by  the  greed  of  the  world, 

And  one  by  death's  fears. 

So  they  amble  inglorious 

By  street  car  and  train 

To  office  and  counters, 

Flat  of  the  city 

Or  burrow  suburban: 

Squirrels  in  cages, 

Whirling  for  naught! 

O  Mons  and  Charleroi, 
War  of  the  Rivers, 

Makers  of  Heroes! 


THE  ANGELS  OF  MONS. 

WHAT  is  this  tale  of  angels  in  a  vision, 
Bowmen  that  hovered  o'er  our  broken  host? 
What  is  this  sound  of  laughter  and  derision, 
As  when  one  speaks  at  noonday  of  a  ghost1? 

Say  that  the  myth  was  formed  from  out  the  dreaming 
Of  one  who  wrought  it  for  his  daily  bread: 
Ah,  none  the  less,  be  sure  it  was  the  streaming 
Of  light  of  Heaven  thro'  the  heart  and  head ! 

When  gather  principality  and  power, 
And  spiritual  wickedness  in  places  high; 
When  the  World-Rulers  of  this  darkness  lower 
In  one  last  tempest,  to  triumph  or  to  die ; 

When  Armageddon  all  the  world  inherits, 

Dark  legacy  of  people,  King,  and  Priest; 

When  issue,  like  to  frogs,  the  unclean  spirits 

From  the  false  Prophet,  the  Dragon,  and  the  Beast  :* 

Think  ye  'tis  credible  that  God,  uncaring, 
Sits  in  His  heaven  smiling  at  the  psalms? 
Think  ye  His  angels,  neutral  and  undaring, 
Too  proud  to  fight,  can  only  wave  their  palms'? 

Maketh  He  not  His  angels  fires  of  flaming, 
Yea,  and  His  ministers  a  rushing  wind, 
Sodom  to  burn  for  terror  and  for  shaming, 
The  corners  of  the  world  to  loose  and  bind*? 

Is  it  not  writ  that  Michael  to  their  prison 
Hurled  down  the  rebels,  and  bound  them  with  a  chain  ? 
If  the  Black  Horde  have  now  once  more  arisen, 
Shall  not  the  same  spear  thrust  them  down  again? 

Angels  at  Mons? — And  thinkest  thou  there  solely 
Front  they  the  princes  and  powers  of  the  air? 

*  Revelation  XVI:  12-16. 

49 


Nay,  from  the  lowest  Hell  thro'  all  the  heavens  holy, 
Fight  they  the  Serpent,  nor  ever  know  despair ! 

War  in  the  compass  of  a  drop  of  water, 
War  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  thine  own  blood ; 
The  Darkness  and  the  Light  arrayed  for  slaughter 
In  every  atom  of  the  eternal  flood ! 

Ask  art  thou  worthy  of  the  shining  vision, 
As  when  the  prophets  opened  the  young  eyes, 
Showed  on  the  mount  the  burning  apparition, 
Horses  and  chariots  of  fire  from  the  skies? 

Blessed  who  see  not,  and  who  yet  believe  it, 
Winning  assurance  where  the  sense  is  numb. 
Virtues  and  powers  of  the  soul  perceive  it, 
Bow  down  in  worship,  and  with  joy  are  dumb! 

Blest  who  believe,  and  need  no  nerve  of  seeing; 
Well  may  they  fight,  who  never  fight  alone: 
Army  on  army  of  the  Heavens  in  being, 
And,  Himself  wounded,  the  Captain  on  the  Throne ! 


POLAND,  1915. 

[NOTE:  "Picture  this  land,  always  melancholy,  desolate,  and 
poor,  given  over  to  the  destroyer.  Across  its  steppes,  at  this 
season  of  the  year  parched  by  the  scorching  summer  sun,  the 
dust  is  blowing  up  before  a  hot  wind  in  choking  clouds.  And 
realize,  if  possible,  that  this  dust,  which  covers  everything  with 
a  grey  mantle,  is  the  dust  of  that  which  was  living  human 
ity  this  time  last  year." — FORTNIGHTLY  REVIEW,  September, 
1915.] 

A i !  what  is  this  dust 
That  dims  the  sunshine, 
And  falls,  a  grey  rust, 
Upon  poplar  and  pine 
And  the  steppes'  burnt  crust, 
To  their  last  confine — 
This  grey  darkening  dust 
That  dims  the  sky-line"? 

Last  year,  ah  me ! 
It  could  laugh  and  weep; 
A  child  climbed  its  knee, 
On  its  breast  fell  asleep ; 
It  ploughed  the  low  lea, 
To  sow  and  to  reap — 
Last  year,  ah  me ! 

O  wandering  dust, 
Without  rest  in  the  grave! 
O  dim  grey  rust, 
'Twas  but  little  to  crave 
In  the  steppes'  burnt  crust 
A  home  in  the  grave, 
'Gainst  the  wandering  lust 
Of  the  wild  wind's  wave ! 


THE  RED  REAPER. 

J'T^is  the  Red  Reaper!     He  casts  his  blood-red  shadow 

A     Across  the  autumnal  beauty  of  the  world; 
Dark  moves  his  scythe  o'er  mountain  and  o'er  meadow 
Like  banner  of  the  King  of  Hell  unfurled. 

Pensive  and  sweet  it  was  to  see  the  turning, 
In  happy  years,  of  green  leaves  into  red ; 
The  autumn  woodland  now  seems  but  the  burning 
Of  town  and  village  and  deserted  dead. 

Gone  is  the  joy  we  had  in  the  sun-setting, 
Islands  of  fire  in  the  golden  deeps ; 
Now  it  burns  memories  beyond  forgetting, 
Red  fields  afire  o'er  which  the  red  scythe  sweeps. 

Oh,  nevermore  we'll  watch  the  great  moon  throwing 
The  harvest  fields  into  a  happy  trance ! 
Henceforth  its  light  will  cast  the  shadow  mowing 
Dark  swathes  on  fields  of  Flanders  and  of  France ! 


THE  DEAD  DEATH'S-HEAD  HUSSAR. 

THOU  madest  Death  thy  Lord  and  King, 
His  head  thy  sign ; 
Now  with  his  grim  unchanging  smile 
He  plays  with  thine. 

This  morn  thou  rod'st,  the  "Wacht  am  Rhein' 

Thy  lips  upon; 

To-night  thy  watch  is  on  the  banks 

Of  Acheron. 


AS  IT  WERE  A  SEA  OF  GLASS  MINGLED 
WITH  FIRE. 

OFT  at  the  hour  of  the  sun's  downgoing, 
Saw  he  the  dead  world  laid  upon  a  pyre, 
Westward  from  Patmos  the  mystic  heavens  glowing, 
Waters  that  were  wild,  and  waves  that  were  afire. 

Loud  in  his  ears,  a  sound  of  many  waters, 
Echoed  the  peoples,  their  tumults  and  their  din, 
Rumours  of  their  wars  and  tempests  of  their  slaughters, 
And  thro'  the  waves  smote  the  fires  of  their  sin ! 

Then  in  a  moment  the  tumult  of  the  nations 
Hushed  was  and  stilled  into  a  glassy  sea, 
As  once  the  Voice  that  moves  the  constellations 
Calmed  waves  and  winds  on  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

Lo,  in  the  depths  a  rapture  and  a  wonder ! 
The  fire  still  burning  in  the  centre  of  its  peace; 
In  the  new  heavens,  ah,  what  can  ever  sunder 
The  crystal  and  the  fire  until  the  heavens  cease*? 

Wilt  thou  not  still  the  raging  of  the  nations, 
Calm  their  wild  waves  by  sin  and  passion  blown, 
Mingle  the  fire  of  all  the  generations 
With  seas  of  glass  outspread  before  thy  throne  ? 


TO  THE  FALLEN  OF  THE  NATIONS. 

YEA,  let  us  praise  them,  for  they  have  made  payment 
To  the  last  penny  of  the  long  account; 
Yea,  to  the  Mother  rendered  back  the  raiment, 
Respired  the  spirit  to  the  Eternal  Fount! 

Once  built  they  shrines  for  sweet  beloved  faces, 
Shining  in  fancy — secret  in  the  heart, 
Wandered  and  worshipped  within  lonely  places, 
Held  within  the  world  a  world  apart. 

Once  joy,  bright-winged,  would  wake  them  from  their  sleep 
ing, 

Or  some  dear  grief  lie  down  with  them  at  night ; 
Once  Hope  and  Fear  would  hold  them  in  their  keeping, 
Mirror  all  changes  of  the  dark  and  light. 

Then  came  the  end  of  loving  and  of  choosing: 
Slow,  slow,  or  at  a  step,  they  reached  the  goal — 
The  silver  cord's  long  tedious  unloosing, 
The  sudden  breaking  of  the  golden  bowl. 

Souls  that  for  crown  once  asked  the  pleiads  seven 
Claim  now  not  e'en  one  low  last  faltering  breath; 
Six  feet  of  clay  content  them  for  a  heaven, 
Low  in  the  last  humility  of  death. 

Yea,  let  us  praise  them,  for  they  have  made  payment 
To  the  last  penny  of  the  long  account; 
Yea,  to  the  Mother  rendered  back  the  raiment, 
Respired  the  spirit  to  the  Eternal  Fount ! 


STRENGTHEN  US  NOW! 

THE  young  men  see  visions, 
And  the  old  men  dream  dreams, 
And  the  sun  stands  still  in  the  heavens 
To  watch  the  swaying  strife, 
And  at  night  the  moon  is  pale ! 

O  Thou  to  whom  a  thousand  years  are  as  a  day, 

And  a  day  as  a  thousand  years, 

Strengthen  us  now ! 

For  a  day  is  more  than  a  thousand  years  gone  by. 

We  were  torn  with  dissensions  and  strife, 

WTith  wrongs,  injustices,  fears; 

But  now  the  dawn  is  breaking, 

The  shadows  of  night  are  fleeing  away, 

The  dark  clouds  melt  before  the  sun, 

And  the  air  is  clear  in  the  blue  wide  spaces, 

And  voices  speak  in  the  winds, 

And  a  spirit  breathes  forth  from  the  mountains 

And  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 

The  moon  by  night  holds  her  breath, 

The  stars  grow  pale  to  see  the  conflict, 

And  the  sun  stands  still  in  the  sky! 

The  dead  of  the  Nations  are  watching 
From  the  ramparts  of  the  past. 

O  Thou  to  whom  a  thousand  years  are  as  a  day, 
And  a  day  as  a  thousand  years, 
Strengthen  us  now ! 


ONWARD  YE  GO. 

ONWARD  ye  go,  our  brave  lads,  in  your  marching, 
Loud  beat  the  drums,  keep  ye  time  with  your  feet, 
Lift  up  your  heads  to  the  grey  sky  o'erarching, 
Take  one  last  look  at  the  grey  city  street. 

Your  all  and  all  ye  heaped  upon  the  altar, 
Flung  to  war's  flame  your  being — life  and  limb; 
Of  less  or  more  ye  would  not  stoop  to  palter, 
Poured  out  the  wine-cup  running  o'er  the  brim. 

Youth  with  its  joys  of  living  and  of  loving 
All  that  you  were  and  all  you  were  to  be, 
Longings  that  brood,  and  hopes  that  go  a-roving, 
All  sacrificed  for  the  dear  country! 

We  who  abide  within  the  old  grey  city 
The  old  round  treading  'neath  the  old  grey  skies, 
Think  ye  we  wrong  you  with  one  thought  of  pity*? 
Nay,  nay,  dear  hearts,  we  are  too  sad  and  wise. 

Is  it  not  written  for  the  soul's  slow  learning, 
When  the  burnt  offerings  began  to  smoke, 
Lo,  the  Lord's  song  went  upward  in  the  burning, 
Lo,  the  priest's  trumpets  into  triumph  broke? 

Yea,  and  we  too,  altho'  we  shrink  and  falter, 
Raise  the  Lord's  song,  albeit  sad  and  slow; 
Yea,  through  the  smoke  and  flaming  of  the  altar, 
Triumph  the  trumpets — for  we  let  you  go ! 

So  on  ye  go,  our  brave  lads,  in  your  marching, 
To  the  loud  drums  beat  ye  time  with  your  feet, 
Lift  up  your  heads  to  the  grey  sky  o'erarching, 
Take  one  long  look  at  the  grey  city  street! 


DULCE  ET  DECORUM. 

PITY  them  not,  'tis  we  who  need  your  pity, 
We  with  weak  hands  who  cannot  fight  nor  die, 
We  who  must  live  and  see  no  Shining  City 
Flash  from  the  gun-rent  spaces  of  the  sky. 

All  that  are  women,  be  they  maids  or  mothers, 
Have  but  a  waiting  till  the  end  be  won ; 
Not  theirs  to  fight  with  fathers  and  with  brothers, 
Not  theirs  to  strive  for  husband  or  for  son. 

Men  that  are  old,  that  cower  above  the  embers 

Of  their  dead  selves,  and  dream  upon  the  past, 

Each  in  the  tired  sad  soul  and  heart  remembers 

Once  he  had  dreamed  that  youth  and  strength  must  last. 

Then  had  he  marched  into  the  high  emprising, 
Fearing  nor  man  nor  death  nor  any  pain, 
Hearing  the  bugle  and  the  swift  uprising 
Of  men  and  nations,  lest  the  evil  gain. 

Men  that  are  young,  but  whom  the  gods,  unkinder, 
Granted  not  strength,  although  their  souls  be  brave, 
To  them  each  deed  of  glory  is  reminder, 
Weak,  without  glory,  they  must  seek  the  grave. 

Yea,  for  our  years  may  drag  on  in  derision, 
To  grey  old  age  and  wintry  setting  sun ; 
Not  ours  to  see  the  glory  and  the  vision, 
Not  with  our  lives  the  victory  is  won. 

Better,  far  better,  yea,  in  youth's  fair  morning, 
While  life's  high  sun  is  shining  in  the  sky, 
And  with  its  gold  the  far  blue  hills  adorning, 
In  one  swift  flame  of  sacrifice  to  die ! 


THE  NIGHT  WIND. 

OUT  in  the  dark  sad  night  the  wind  seems  fretting, 
Like  a  sick  child  in  pain, 
As  if  his  soul  were  all  forgetting 
The  spring's  soft  rain. 

Not  as  some  fair  girl's  happy  weeping, 

Like  April's  sunny  showers, 

The  sky,  a  breaking  heart,  when  earth  is  sleeping, 

Weeps  through  the  hours. 

Say,  does  the  wind  remember  the  young  faces 
On  which  he  loved  to  blow*? 

And  does  the  night-cloud  think  of  those  far  places, 
Where  they  lie  low  ? 

Grieve  not!  'twas  that  free  wind  and  that  wide  heaven, 
Their  mountains  and  their  sea, 

That  made  them  men ;  now  they  their  lives  have  given 
To  keep  these  free ! 


A  BLIND  SOLDIER. 

I. 

I   HALTED  in  the  path 
The  better  to  drink  in 
Each  blessed  sight  and  sound 
Above,  below,  around. 
The  golden  sun  of  June 
In  the  high  hour  of  noon 
Filled  like  a  cup  the  little  lake 
With  golden  wine. 

I  heard  the  murmur  of  a  distant  stream; 
Somewhere  beyond  my  utmost  gaze 
I  heard  a  lark  upraise 
Its  throbbing  song  of  love  and  praise ; 

Full  of  the  joy  I  turned, 

And  saw  him  standing  there, 

And  on  a  sudden  burned 

A  flame  of  shame  that  I  had  found 

The  world  so  glad  and  fair. 

He  turned  his  eyes  around, 

Poor  sightless  eyes,  as  if  still  unaware 

They  could  not  see, 

Then  raised  them  to  the  sunlit  air, 

And  gazed  in  silence  long 

There  where  the  lark  poured  forth  his  song. 

Then  the  head  dropped  upon  his  breast; 
He  reached  a  groping  helpless  hand 
In  silent  quest 

Of  her  who  led  him  thro'  the  land — 
Sister,  or  more,  I  cannot  say — 
They  passed — and  as  they  went  I  heard 
The  unseen  bird:  its  gladness  smote 
My  heart.     I  turned  my  eyes  away; 
The  grief  climbed  in  my  throat: 
I  let  them  go,  and  could  not  speak  a  word ! 

60 


It  vexes  me  to  think  I  could  not  speak — 

The  poor  face  looked  so  sad  and  meek, 

Oft  yet  I  see  it  in  the  sunlit  air, 

And  wonder  why  he  stood  so  rooted  there, 

With  face  uplifted  to  the  sky. 

Just  so,  perhaps — for  who  can  tell*? — 

Into  some  sudden  lull  of  fight 

Upon  the  banks  of  Marne  or  Aisne, 

A  lark's  song  fell, 

And  as  he  raised  his  eyes,  the  shell 

Burst,  and  never  again, 

O  nevermore, 

Will  he  hear  the  soaring  lark 

Sing  in  that  new  strange  inner  dark ; 

But  that  last  look  upon  the  skies 

Will  lighten  the  poor  darkened  eyes, 

Until  even  that  light  dies — 

And  yet  I  could  not  stir  or  speak, 

The  young  face  looked  so  sad  and  meek. 

II. 

This  was,  perchance,  his  boyhood  home, 
And  when  he  stood  there  on  the  path 
Did  the  song  fling  on  memory's  wall 
Behind  the  darkened  eyes, 
With  poignant  bitter  joy, 
The  dear  familiar  hills  and  lakes  and  skies, 
Moors  where  the  curlew  cries, 
The  leap  of  brown  white  waterfalls, 
And  all  the  world  he  roamed  in  when  a  boy  *? 
And  now — 'twas  gone,  'twas  gone ! 
And  he — ah,  he  might  wander  on  and  on 
For  fifty  darkened  years 
Thro'  other  hopes  and  other  fears, 
And  never  see  the  morning  rise, 
Or  the  sun  sink  into  the  western  skies 
Or  any  glance  of  sweet  beloved  eyes ! 

6l 


And  I — ah  me — forgetful  of  the  cost 

At  which  the  world  was  lost, 

And  saved  to  me, 

Was  glad  it  was  so  fair  to  see ! 

No  marvel  if  my  conscience  smote 

My  heart,  and  smarts  it  still, 

For  those  blind  eyes  'twixt  hill  and  hill. 

And  still  the  grief  climbs  in  my  throat 

To  think  I  could  not  speak, 

The  poor  face  looked  so  sad  and  meek ! 


62 


RUSSIA. 

I. 

A,  Sleeper  of  the  Ages,  who  stirrest  thy  limbs  and  out- 
moanest, 

Speaking  strange  words  from  the  dark  broken  heart  of  thy 
dreamings, 

Why  on  the  steppes  lies  thy  body  under  the  sun  and  the  moon 
light, 

Thy  hair,  white  with  sorrow,  out-spread  'neath  the  stars  of 
the  Nor'land, 

Thy  feet  in  the  sea-waves  where  Jason  for  the  Golden  Fleece 
went  a-questing*? 


II. 

Ah,  Sleeper  of  the  Ages,  thy  years  are  the  years  of  a  woman, 
Yet  thy  face  is  the  face  of  a  child,  who  knows  not  why  it  is 

chidden, 
Thrust  forth  from  the  household  of  nations,  a  waif  and  an 

outcast, 
Watching  her  sisters  afar  as  they  pass  in  the  pride  of  their 

glory, 
Sobbing  her  lone  heart  to  sleep,  yet  in  dreams  rememb'ring  her 

weeping ! 


III. 

Ah,  Sleeper  of  the  Ages,  what  passeth  beneath  the  dark  eye 
lids? 

Art  thou  as  one  in  a  dream  who  meets  ever  and  aye  his  own 
footsteps  *? 

Or  as  a  traveller  on  the  white  steppes  and  thro'  an  infinite 
forest 

Heareth  the  howl  of  the  wolves,  and  flees,  yet  has  no  power 
of  fleeing1? 

Or  as  one  pursued  for  a  crime,  and  the  crime  is  to  dream  of 
freedom  *? 

63 


IV. 

Ah,  Sleeper  of  the  Ages,  when  thou  turnest  thy  face  to  the 

westward, 

The  soul  of  thy  fathers  still  draweth  thee  back  to  the  sunrise ; 
When  thou  laughest  low,  in  thy  sleep,  behold,  with  a  child 

thou  art  playing, 

And  when  thou  weepest,  'tis  not  for  thyself  thou  art  weeping ; 
The  tears  on  thy  cheek  are  the  tears  of  a  race  and  a  world  all 

mortal ! 

V. 

Ah,  Sleeper  of  the  Ages,  who  smilest  so  sad  in  thy  dreaming, 

Thou  hearest  the  song  of  the  Mother,  sweet,  vast,  and  tumul 
tuous, 

Voices  of  women  and  children,  the  march  of  the  men  and  the 
movements, 

Winds  in  the  reeds  of  the  marshes,  the  moan  of  the  storm  in 
the  forests, 

And,  under  the  murmur  of  streams,  lo,  the  sound  of  the  tears 
of  the  Maker ! 

VI. 

Now,  Sleeper  of  the  Ages,  thou  stretchest  thy  limbs  and 
awakest ; 

Wilt  thou  turn  thine  eyes  to  the  sunrise,  the  home  of  thy 
fathers'? 

Wilt  thou  march  in  the  highway  that  opens  out  to  the  west 
ward? 

Nay,  say  to  thy  soul,  I  will  dwell  in  my  land  of  the  steppes 
and  the  forests : 

Yet  will  I  free  my  heart  with  the  sea  and  the  voice  of  its 
waters ! 


"MY  GOD  FORBID  IT  ME." 

(I  Chron.  XI:  15-19.) 

I. 

A  SUDDEN  mist  of  unshed  tears 
Blinded  the  outlaw's  eyes ; 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away 
Across  the  haunted  years, 
He  saw  in  lands  of  memory 
The  little  upland  town  arise, 

The  downs  o'er  which  he  wandered  with  his  sheep, 
And  learned  the  shepherd-care 
'Gainst  raids  of  lion  and  bear. 
Once  more  he  saw  the  pastures  of  green  grass 
Where  he  would  make  his  tired  flocks  to  lie ; 
The  waters  still 
That  flowed  'twixt  hill  and  hill 
Glanced  on  the  inner  eye ; 
Once  more  he  walked  the  dark  fierce  pass, 
And  held  his  breath 

As  'twere  the  Valley  of  the  Shades  of  Death, 
Yet  all  the  more  with  staff  and  rod 
Before  them  trod, 

And  guarded  the  poor  helpless  sheep 
Through  shadows  black  and  deep, 
And  learned  the  shepherd-care  of  God ! 

"O  for  a  draught  of  water  from  the  well 

Beside  the  gate !"  The  longing  fell 

Unconscious  from  his  lips.  Three  heard, 

Broke  thro'  the  Philistines  with  spear  and  sword, 

And  from  the  well  of  youth 

Brought  water  for  his  drouth. 

Amazed,  the  outlaw  stood, 

That  men  should  jeopard  life  and  limb, 

At  a  mere  thoughtless  word, 

For  love  of  him ; 

"My  God  forbid  that  I  should  drink  men's  blood!" 

He  poured  the  water  out  unto  the  Lord. 


II. 

Ah  me,  until  our  latest  breath, 

We  must  drink  draughts  of  blood  and  death! 

Never  a  cup  of  water  from  the  well, 

Nor  crust  of  daily  bread, 

Nor  breeze  that  freshens  over  hill  and  dell, 

Nor  journeying  sun  from  east  to  west, 

Nor  daily  task,  nor  nightly  rest, 

Nor  home  and  love  and  child  and  wife, 

Nor  freedom  to  hold  up  the  head, 

And  live  our  life, — 

But  is  a  draught  of  water  from  the  dead, 

The  loving-cup  of  blood 

From  hearts  that  lie  in  the  last  trance, 

Yonder,  in  fields  of  Flanders  and  of  France! 

And  we — ah,  here's  our  test! — 

Say,  shall  we  drink  it  down  and  laugh  and  jest, 

Or  pour  it  out  upon  their  native  sod, 

An  offering  to  their  God? 


66 


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